Dolls
by Experimental
Summary: To fail the self is nothing. To fail a friend . . . It is a sin undeserving of this sort of kindness. Something so beautiful it's cruel. . . . Yet somehow we go on. We create monsters. Muraki POV


Dolls 

It was bright that day. The air was warm and pleasant and a cool, light breeze blew through the park where I waited for him to come meet me. I had been vague about the time, because I did not know when I would be finished with my own business. However, I was glad for it; otherwise I might have missed the simple calm of that sunny afternoon in early June. 

It was the kind of day on which everything appears in light and shadows: all the different greens of the park's deciduous trees brilliantly highlighted by the sun, their inner branches and the ground beneath dark. 

If only I could see my own feelings with such clarity. 

Every now and then the breeze would stir the branches and expose the white undersides of the leaves, flashing as they twisted like paper offerings on a string. Looking up under a birch or a maple the thin leaves shone translucently as though with an internal light. The effect was less pronounced under the dark-leafed rhododendrons that spread like umbrellas over the raised beds of annuals freshly planted and ornamental grasses, and over the low rock wall that held it in. This is where I sat and waited, under the stillness of rhododendrons whose last flowers were wilting on the higher branches, where I felt cool even in my school uniform. 

Something light tickled my hand. Somewhere cottonwoods were pollinating. The wind was light that day and the bits of white fluff drifted down like snowflakes. They would have seemed just as ephemeral if not for the small white banks forming on the sides of the pavement, proof that they did not just melt and disappear in the heat as one would expect. I watched as the tuft that had landed on me struggled against a wind only it could feel to remain attached. It carried one tiny seed. A hope for the future sent out alone into the world with only a fragile sail to set its course. Did it think the flesh of my hand could provide all it needed to grow? Eventually it was carried away. 

Children could be heard playing somewhere in the park, no more than an occasional echo, no different from the crows or songbirds that also remained out of sight. A couple lowered their tones as they passed. Someone had turned on the radio and a familiar song drifted toward me. Or was it just my imagination? Some similar sequence of notes that triggered the memory of the song in my head? A lilting melody as fleeting as the cottonwood seeds, as my contentedness, that I strained to hear better, but the anti-noise of the trees and open air seemed to drown it out more the harder I tried. It seemed to mock me and my efforts, tempting me with a sudden, strange feeling of nostalgia that in turn only reminded of my isolation from this world. I was not welcome. That remained something I could not overcome. 

Watching the cottonwood seeds pile up along the edges of the pavement, a masochistic sense of kinship warming me, time ceased— And the melody went round in my head like the twisting leaves— For a while, at least. 

My melancholy evaporated as quickly as a dream when he arrived. Like a dream, a shadow of it lingered in the back of my mind but I quickly convinced myself of its unreality. 

"How did it go?" 

This was the first thing he said to me, because we were far beyond the point for trite greetings, and he had never been one to mince words. 

"It went well. About as I expected." 

"What did they give you?" 

I rounded off a high figure. He didn't seem too impressed. 

"Are you sure you didn't get gypped? That was for the whole box?" 

"Each. Average." 

Now his eyes widened. "_That_ should about pay for the rest of your education." He ran a hand through his hair. It was still rather short then. "Each, huh? Well, I'm sure you know what you're doing. The only thing _I_ know about dolls is I never liked them. They're creepy." 

"Many of them were antiques or rare. I always knew they were worth quite a bit, but I did my homework anyway. I still think the dealer got the better deal." 

He didn't know what to say to that so he said nothing. 

I stood and put my hands in my pockets, avoiding his eyes. I didn't want to stay in the park anymore. 

"Regardless, I can't say I really care anymore." 

"That's it, isn't it? They're all gone now." 

"M-m." 

"Muraki." 

He doubted me. And for that he was concerned. Over this thing that would have meant nothing to anyone else, he was concerned. I could have complained that his worries were misplaced, and that they offended me, but he knew too much about me to warrant such an empty dismissal. He had all the evidence he needed to determine who I was without any of the context. I was too afraid of myself to allow him that. 

"I'm all right," I told him with a smile. "Things are going to get better now that they're gone. I'm sure of it. I hadn't thought about her for weeks, and I expect it will only get easier after this. Now that there's nothing to hold onto anymore, I think... Yes, I can finally let go." 

"I hope you're right, for your sake. It isn't healthy, to be thinking so much about someone who's been dead for so long—I mean—" 

"No. You're absolutely right." 

"So no more of this talk about death?" 

I gave him a smile to reassure him. He gave me a sceptical look. 

— 

I lied to him. 

I didn't sell all the dolls. For practical reasons—and, I admit, some sentimental ones as well—I kept a few stored away. The ones I knew would be worth something to collectors in the future. And the ones that were worth a great deal to me. This was my one indulgence in a past I should have tried to forget. 

It was the one thing I couldn't tell him. He was too wrapped up in this notion of his that he was a sort of counsellor in my own twelve-step program, and that it was his duty to help me through every bump in the road. Or rather, to make sure I went over every bump completely so he could set his conscious at ease. What was he so afraid of? That I would kill myself and leave him all alone? I wouldn't have killed myself, no matter how much such a hopelessly romantic notion appealed to me. I had something to live for, as hopelessly romantic as that something might have seemed for such an outwardly practical person. 

And for all his posturing, his concern and moral advice, and for all the mistakes I've made, he only loves me more. Why I can't fathom as hard as I try. I don't deserve it. Perhaps it was because I couldn't understand that a part of me grew irritated with him. That I made myself out to be some hen-pecked husband. It only made me feel guilty, but I couldn't push him away. 

— 

I didn't intend to lie about letting go. In truth, that was a lie I told myself. In the back of my mind I knew the decision to change has to come from within, not be dictated by the addition or subtraction of external influences; overt acts like that had nothing to do with whether I moved on or not, and I was merely pretending if I thought they did. It wasn't going to just go away. 

She wasn't going to go away. 

I lit a cigarette as I sat cross-legged on the floor watching the woman who had been my date. She was lying in what must have been a rather uncomfortable position, but there was no reason for her to notice or care. A trickle of blood the colour of molasses flowed out from under her turned head, maybe from her ear. I couldn't be sure without moving her—which I was dying of curiosity to do, but some irrational fear gripped me. Like the taboos that are ingrained in us from the first dead bird we see as a child: Don't touch it; you don't know where it's been. But I did know where she'd been. She'd been with me all evening. No, I was afraid if I touched her I'd discover she was still living. What would I do then? 

He was standing still in the doorway staring at me, his mouth slightly open, looking as though he had been petrified by what he'd seen like one of Medusa's victims. 

My own voice felt disconnected, like it was coming from a stranger. "It was an accident," I said. 

We both knew that wasn't half the truth. I dared him to say so, to accuse me, but because he hadn't witnessed the incident there wasn't anything he could logically say. My calm bothered him, it must have seemed so unnatural even for someone studying medicine, but the truth is I didn't know how to feel. From the moment she had pressed herself against me, touching and breathing drunkenly on me, my mind had begun to swim. There was something deep inside me that had been excited by the sudden stillness that came over her when she hit the edge of the coffee table, then the floor. Meanwhile my conscience told me it was somehow my fault, and I feared prosecution more than anything in the first moment after the fact, wondering desperately how the day could have ended like this; but even that faded quickly and I decided it was satisfaction, this sensation. A satisfaction that was lacking but satisfaction nonetheless. 

"I pushed her away. She was trying to..." 

But no explanation was necessary. She was some ten years older than me—she had probably thought a university boy would be a safe, cheap thrill—and her long hair had been lightened and set in a permanent wave. Even now her long features had a cold edge to them. He knew. She looked like my mother. 

"Muraki." 

"You should probably call the police." 

He didn't answer. His eyes which had been searching me until now fell to the woman. He should have hated me for what I did, and for doing it in his apartment. I betrayed him that night—betrayed his expectations, his trust, our friendship. And yet all he could do was stand there and say my name. He was afraid _for_ me. 

"_Oriya._" 

When I said his name his eyes snapped back to me. A sort of understanding without understanding took over his expression that I instinctively resented. But I can't help but wonder what I would have done without it. I knew how he would feel if I were to push him away, how deeply it would have hurt him. (No, I couldn't do that.) I had no idea I could have needed his support just as much. 

"You'd better call." 

I forced myself to say it calmly, but something began to rise in my throat. 

"I can't..." He trailed off. After an agonising moment, he finally said, "I need to think." 

He turned his back on me, disappearing back into the kitchenette. After a few seconds I could hear the water running. Then I realised I was shaking. So this is what they mean by true love, I thought sardonically. 

The woman's eyes stared at the television, glazed over and blind like a doll's. I reached over and closed them and wasn't surprised when they stayed that way. The mascarraed lashes were familiar to me; studying them I began to feel an odd comfort come over me. The cheeks were already starting to resemble porcelain. 

It was a while before I realised I was humming to myself. 

— 

_If life is just a momentary dream  
It must be something like a flower  
Even if our fate is to fall like petals  
We are all the more beloved in our transience _

_Something we lost once somewhere  
Something we left behind somewhere that day  
And that which is left in our hands  
Accompany us down this road_

Ayumi Hamasaki, "Dolls" (translated by Megchan) 


End file.
